


rebellious heart

by mako_lies (wingeddserpent)



Series: Oracle!Gladio Verse [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Developing Relationship, F/F, Fateswap, Flashbacks, Letters, Oracle!Gladio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 15:31:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14475696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingeddserpent/pseuds/mako_lies
Summary: Iris's promotion to Deputy High Commander is the first time in ten years that Aranea and Iris have seen each other.Iris isn't about to let the opportunity go to waste.





	rebellious heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SayNevermore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SayNevermore/gifts).



> Written for ffxv femslash week~! Spawned from a conversation with [domesticfluffsimulator](https://domesticfluffsimulator.tumblr.com/). My hand kind of slipped... Hope you enjoy~!

White and red bedeck the usually barren halls of ZegnautusKeep. Researchers sequestered away in the labs, like always, as their creations stand at parade rest for the ceremony. The MTs adorn the mobile throne room like statues while their new Deputy High Commander is named.

Aside from the damn robots, only the Emperor, General Glauca, Chancellor Izunia, Verstael, Lady Amicitia, the Oracle, Biggs, Wedge, and Aranea are in attendance.

The Emperor presides over them from his tall throne. Lady Amicitia is flanked by MTs, her son stationed across from her. The Oracle has the Chancellor at his ride side, Verstael on his left. A position she doesn’t envy. Her least favorite people in all the Empire.  Aranea and her men stand unfortunately beside Verstael.  And, of course, the woman of the hour stands in the center, proudly before Glauca. 

Iris Amicitia.

There was a time when naming a new Deputy High Commander would have meant a parade and fanfare in the Capitol. But with Project Deathless and the automatization of the army—Aranea wagers those are days are long over. With hardly anyone left in the military, the populace cares less and less about a war that has nothing to do with them. Aranea can’t say she blames them. Can’t even say whether it’s a good or a bad thing. Morality’s way above her pay grade.

Iris is unbent beneath the clinical lights. She is bedecked in the Emperor’s White. Her outfit is a long white coat, buttoned in black over the right side of her chest. Tenebrae’s crest—the sylleblossom—adorns the arm. Drawn in at the waist, her coat flares out at her hips to reveal a short white skirt and black leggings. It’s a sharp look. Accents her slim waist and powerful shoulders.

Her hair is shorn, shaved almost bald at the sides and back, with medium fringe swept to the side. All that baby fat Aranea was so fond of has melted away.

She’s fierce as hell. Aranea digs it—the look of a Princess unfettered by the all the chains the Empire draped her in like jewelry.

She isn’t much taller than Aranea remembers, but she’s bulked up in the past ten years since Aranea’s seen her. Her amber eyes gleam with the fight Aranea always admired. Relief floods her, sharp and surprising, that they couldn’t beat the fight out of Iris. 

*

She’d been defiantly weaponless. Sitting cross-legged in the training ring, the kid didn’t even bother looking up from her phone when Aranea sauntered in. Ballsy. Aranea liked her already. They needed more people like her in the army.

Kid was a scrawny thing with cropped hair and her gaze fixed on the screen. Her eyes narrowed when Aranea stepped into the ring, but she pointedly didn’t look up. Stubborn for a—what was she, thirteen? Fourteen?—thirteen? year old girl. “Iris, huh? Heard you were causing trouble.”

Apparently she’d been giving the entire Palace a run for their money since she’d been brought here with her mother. But gil was gil. The more difficult the girl, the better the gil.They’d called Aranea in from rescue detail on the outskirts to train this kid. Seemed like a cushy job, honestly, especially for an eighteen year old merc still making her name. Aranea certainly wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity. 

“My _dad_ taught me how to fight. I don’t need your stupid fucking training. So get lost.” Her father, the Oracle. Killed by General Glauca. No wonder she didn’t want to train with him. Poor girl.

“Ouch. If you know how to fight, this should be quick.” 

Aranea knew a thing or two about being bull-headed. Still, she was banking on the girl’s pride being weaker than her survival instincts. The Emperor was paying to craft a soldier, and Aranea couldn’t afford to do anything other than that.

 

She guessed right.

 

Phone in hand, the kid dodged Aranea’s kick with ease. Seemed like she’d been telling the truth about that training. Aranea leapt high enough the girl startled, and that was all the opening she needed—she slammed the kid down _hard_ into the mat. Her phone spiraled out of her hand.

Too easy. Kid had good instincts, but she still had a lot to learn. Biggs, from outside the ring, didn’t bother to muffle a laugh. The kid clawed blindly at Aranea, aiming for her face but Aranea just grabbed her wrists. Pinned her. The kid hissed, red-faced with frustration. Kinda cute.

“All right, wildcat. That’s enough.”

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” Her chest heaved, and a bruise purpled on her cheek.

“Aranea Highwind,” she offered. Stood to let the girl up. “Mercenary. Good to meet you. Now hit the showers. We’ll try it again tomorrow.”

Iris took a shuddering breath, sizing Aranea up. She stood, arms wrapped around herselfuncertainly. “All right, ‘Nea. But I still don’t need training.”

“We’ll see about that.”

*

General Glauca booms importantly from behind his mask, “Iris Amicitia, do you swear to serve the Empire and the Interests of Niflheim as Deputy High Commander?”

A long pause. Lady Amicitia stands regally proud, surrounded by MTs. She is wearing a flowing red dress, like a river of satiny blood, and she doesn’t flinch as her daughter swears her oath.

What choice have they, captive family of Tenebrae? 

Lady Grace Amicitia’s chin remains high, her shoulders a hard line. She will not be cowed, even after the death of her husband. Even after all the time she has spent here in the Capitol, used to leash her children. Sucks to be her, but Aranea respects her.

Iris says, “I swear, by the Six, I shall serve the interests of Niflheim.”

Her brother, Gladiolus, takes a breath through his teeth. His muscles ripple beneath the shirt he had deigned wear for the occasion. A white button up and black slacks. Simple but sexy. The Chancellor puts a slimy hand on his shoulder, in a glamour of comfort. 

(Likely, this will be the last time the Amicitia siblings see each other for awhile—reports from Cartanica have filtered through—pestilence, requiring the Oracle’s healing. Gladiolus will not be long in the capitol. For the best, probably. Better for everybody if he doesn’t stir up trouble.)

Silence as the new Deputy Commander kneels before her Emperor. Once upon a time, it would have filled Aranea with pride. With relief. These days… Well. She knows which way the wind is blowing. This appointment is ceremonial, at best. At worst, a reminder to the rest of the world (and especially to her brother), where exactly that famed Amicitia loyalty lies.

A reminder of what resistance will yield.

Iris kisses the Emperor’s ring, a gaudy thing of ruby and white gold.

The Chancellor smirks as she does, but Aranea catches him rubbing over where a ring would sit on his own finger. Creepy bastard. Probably imagining her kissing his ring, or something equally gross. Hell, she hates that guy. Protectiveness surges up strong enough she clenches her fists.

“Serve me well, Deputy Commander,” the Emperor says. “Serve me well, and you shall be well-rewarded.”

Fat chance. (But what can Aranea say? Her and her men have grown fat off the promised rewards of this man. The man she has served all her life. Can’t turn back now, and can’t turn away.)

*

Sometimes, Aranea heard rumors about the Oracle’s sister: that her Gralean education didn’t seem to be sticking, or that she was driving her new trainers totally crazy. Aranea considered reaching out to some of her contacts in the Palace to get the full story, but decided against it.

She’d only trained the kid for a few months before General Glauca had taken back over. Wasn’t like she cared or anything. Aranea was a lot of things, but soft wasn’t one of them. She didn’t need anybody outside of the 87th.

Except one day, she’d dragged herself aching to the haven after a long hunt to find a smiling Wedge. “Letter for you, Lady A!”

Who the hell? Her entire family was here. And it wasn’t like she had friends.

She tore the letter open:

 

_Nea,_

_I c_ _an’t believe you left me with these jerks. You better come back soon or I’m gonna_ _die or something_ _. They made my brother Oracle_ _._ _He’s off healing. Mom’s_ _totally losing it. She actually cried the other day._

_When are you coming back?_ _It’s not like I miss you or anything. But hurry up._

_See you soon,_

_Iris_

 

Aranea’d read the letter twice, before folding it and putting in her breast pocket. She’d kept it there for a week before she grudgingly sent her reply:

 

_Kid,_

_Keep on keeping on. If I run into your brother, I’ll give him my regards. Chin up, wildcat._

_Best,_

_Aranea_

*

An hour after the ‘festivities’ have crawled to a close, Iris finds Aranea in an abandoned conference room. A holographic map of Lucis is the only light, the room thrown into ethereal blue light. Iris approaches—her tall boots clicking sharp on the linoleum. “Been awhile, ‘Nea.” She sits on the long table. 

“Guess so. Me and my men have been keeping the peace in the Rift. Making good money clearing snow and daemons. Heard your training got turned over to the General after I left. How’d you end up surviving that, anyway?” Aranea keeps her tone casual, but she’s curious. The spitfire kid of her memories had had a knack for pissing him off.

People with that particular talent tended to live briefly.

Iris shrugs, reaching up to undo a few buttons at her throat. Black ink stands out stark against her skin, but Aranea can’t get a good look at what it is. Just the rounded tips of something. Probably a back or a shoulder tattoo.

But if she were to gamble, Aranea’d say it’s probably wings. Like her brother and her father. A testament to the Amicitia’s days at the side of the Lucian Kings.

What a pair of rebels. They’re going to get themselves killed. Or, more likely, Tenebrae raised to the ground. 

Iris says, “Turns out I’m tougher than I look.”

She looked at lot tougher at twenty-three than she had at thirteen. All that muscle—looks like she could tear down anybody in her way. “Yeah? Glad to hear it.”

“Wanna give it a go?”Iris’s mouth curves, slanted like a promise.

Aranea’s clearest memories of Iris are of when she was a child, but then—she’d been all but a child herself then. Neither of them are children anymore. And any youth and innocence left to Iris will not survive the year. Not with the way the War is heating up again. “What did you have in mind?”

“A friendly spar. See if I can hold my own now.” Iris smirks. “I won’t disappoint.”

Surprisingly honest—”You never did.”

*

A year after Aranea’d left, her and her men’d been working with hunters in Cavaugh to clear a behemoth infestation. She’d been laid up with a broken wrist when the letter arrived.

 

_Nea,_

_Been awhile. Just finished a field trip to the Rift to fight critters. Glauca says I’m not terrible, but I don’t care what he thinks._ _W_ _hile we were there, the Glacian spoke to me._

 _They’ve got me cooped up in the Keep_ _now_ _. Creepy scientist guy keeps poking at me_ _with needles_ _. Trying to figure out how it works_ _, I guess_ _._ _I don’t know what he thinks blood samples are gonna achieve._

_Gladdy’s_ _still_ _too important for them to study—thank the Six. But my arms are all bruised up—I hate this place_ _, Nea_ _. The MTs freak me out._

_Plus_ _the Chancellor’s been running around with his crazy fairy tales. He freaks me out more than anything._ _My brother says he’s not what he seems, but I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean._

_Before you ask, these letters are secure. Mom’s got some of our people running letters and things. So don’t worry about obeying the party line. I’ll protect you._

_I miss you. Please come back soon, and take care of yourself._

_Best wishes,_

_Iris_

 

Shit. That was a lot. They turned her over to Verstael? She really must have pissed somebody off. Then, nobody had ever been able to study the connection between the Oracle and the Six, for fear of hurting the Oracle. But the Oracle’s little sister? Aranea didn’t envy her.

 

_Wildcat,_

_Gonna be_ _in Lucis awhile longer_ _. What did the Glacian say to you, anyway?_ _I_ _sn’t she dead? I distinctly remember_ _murdering her_ _._

_My advice_ _—don’t react to the Chancellor._ _T_ _he best way to deal with him is to keep him from escalating. I’ll try to come back soon as I can_ _._ _I miss you too, kid._

_Stay strong,_

_Aranea_

*

The training room is empty. Not even a single MT. The practice ring is clear, but around the perimeter of the room are boxes neatly labelled by researchers. Now that they don’thave anyone to train, looks like the room is mostly unused. Just another storage room for their march of progress.

Aranea’s not sure what goes into teaching MTs to fight, if they even need to be taught or if they’re just programmed, but she honestly doesn’t want to know. The farther she stays away from them, the happier she is.

Iris waits in the ring, easy and relaxed. “Got a preference on weapons?”

“What weapons can you use?” She’s guessing they trained her in a variety of styles, but there’s no accounting for taste.

“Yes.” Iris’s grin is wide, sarcastic. Aranea snorts. “But I prefer my hands.”

Intimate way to kill. Aranea can appreciate that—in a war fought by soulless robots and magick, there’s a certain nostalgia for the intimacy of hands. Some human connection that the Empire is utterly lacking these days. “Right. Well, fists it is. It’s your day, after all.”

The Emperor’s day—to show how well he’s brought the line of the Oracle to heel.

 

While Aranea can appreciate the closeness of fists, she prefers distance. There’s a reason she’s a dragoon. She can survey the field and find her enemy’s weakness, before striking at that perfect moment. With hands—well, she can give Iris that closeness. Gladly.

She rolls out of the way of a powerful kick. Iris is fast. Small and fast, and her foot comes down _hard_. Aranea throws a neat punch as Iris recovers, and it barely connects—she pulls it  in at the last second, so that her knuckles just graze Iris’s sleeve. Iris scoffs, “Think I can’t handle it?” as she flings herself at Aranea fists first.

Aranea jumps—not as high as she can with her lance, but still pretty damn high—over her, saying, “I like to play with my food.”

“That mean you wanna eat me?” Iris flips out of the way of Aranea’s kick, and this time—Iris’s hit does connect, a gentle brush of her fist on Aranea’s cheek, more a careful brush than a strike.

“Wouldn’t say no,” Aranea lets the smirk curl slow, “You’ve improved. Been working hard for the General?”

Iris dances out of the way of Aranea’s string of punches. She hums, thoughtful, and her amber eyes are alight. “Nah. For my brother. Glauca’s training was just an extra special bonus.” But she is distracted, hunting for an opening Aranea doesn’t intend to give her.

Aranea can imagine. General Glauca isn’t known for his soft touch. Still, she can see his fighter’s prowl in Iris. That relentlessness that she will have to show in all aspects of her life if she wants to succeed under the Empire’s banner. Iris feints and—Aranea falls for it, going into the opening only to be dodged—Iris’s hand is up immediately. Aranea steels herself for pain—Iris caresses her cheek. 

*

Two years ago, Aranea had been in Cartanica, investigating the giant tree thing. Sure, it was impressive, but she had no idea what they needed the 87th for. But she wasn’t paid to ask questions.

She’d been curled in a bunk in the train stop when her phone’d dinged.

 

[Unknown] hey gurl hey

[Aranea] Who’s this?

[Unknown] wildcat

[Aranea] How’d you get my number?

[Wildcat] begged wedgehe can be bribed with sweets its great

 

Wedge was still laid up in the Capitol for healing. Good to know he wasn’t on his own.

 

[Aranea] Traitor. How are things? Heard you’re at the uni?

[Wildcat] studying tactics and military theory they’re gonna have me be glauca 2.0 I think

[Aranea] That’s big news. Congrats?

[Wildcat] guess so they gotta control me like my bro

[Aranea] How is he?

[Wildcat] exhausted they brought him back to rest moms throwing a fit pretty sure theyre gonna put her in the dungeons again

[Aranea] Sucks.

[Wildcat] did you watch that movie I sent?

[Aranea] Yeah. Gotta admit, it was good. That Leia lady really did it for me.

[Wildcat] lmao youve got a type

 

Aranea had looked up at the ceiling and sighed. Yeah, she did. Fierce as hell Princesses with hearts full of rebellion.

She was so doomed.

*

Both come to a stop. Iris’s hand is callused and warm on her face, surprisingly gentle for a soldier. She steps close enough that Aranea can feel the warmth radiating off of her. Comforting. But—unnerving at the same time. She’s in too deep. Getting attached to anybody in this regime is a mistake. But her rebellious heart—Aranea can’t turn away from Iris. She’s got spirit. Fight. Gentleness. Intelligence. Traits that she admires—

“You’re better than this place,” Iris murmurs. Aranea tenses. The Keep has ears. Cameras are all over the place. MTs lurking in every corner.

“Iris—Deputy High Commander,” Aranea says, the warning clear in her voice. “You’re playing with fire. Don’t be stupid.”

Iris’s fingers curl, like she wants to cling, and then she steps back. Warmth leaving with her. “I know. But I’m not going to be part of _his_ war machine. And you—you’re not like them. You’re better than this, Nea. Please. Do this, with me? ”

“And here I was starting to think you were sane. This isn’t one of your brother’s romance novels.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m not asking you to do it for me. I’m asking you to do it because it’s right: for you, for your men, for the world. But I wouldn’t say no, if you wanted to do it for me.” Iris’s smile returns, but she bounces on her heels, and there’s a flush that may or may not be from their ‘spar’. 

Aranea snorts. “You think so? You really think I’d be here if I thought it was the wrong place for me and my men to be?” 

“No. But the Empire isn’t going to be on top forever. The King of Light is coming. Aranea—Nea—please. Trust me? Trust me to keep you safe.” 

Iris turns her gaze to the ceiling, eyes bright with tears, the first time Aranea’s ever seen her cry. Aranea takes a steadying breath. Ten years of exchanging letters, the occasional phone call—she crosses her arms to create distance that she doesn’t feel. Dammit, she _cares_ about Iris, and she’s grown up beautiful and fierce and smart—Aranea says, softly, “ And if I wanted to protect you? It’s suicide, Iris. You _know_ that. You’re a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. ”

There have been so many failed revolutions and coups, failed resistances and insurgents. Aranea knows how this story ends. Idealism has no place in the Empire. She’s always prided herself on her practicality. For creating distance. But her traitorous heart—

Iris blinks the tears away fiercely, still so strong, and Aranea remembers—

That thirteen year old, who had gotten up and gotten up, and said, only, “If I stay down, how am I gonna save my brother?” She had ignored her sword, laying forlorn across the room, and charged with her bare hands—

“You sound so damn sure that I’ll do this with you. But it’s been ten years, Iris. We were kids then—you expect me to screw myself and all the people relying on me over? For what, some letters? A couple of phone calls? We’re already part of the machine. No denying that.”

“I love you, Nea. You weren’t the only person who was kind to me here… but you’re the one who stuck around. Who watched the movies I sent. Who wrote back. You’ve been here for me all along. And I don’t—” Iris bows her head, fringe hanging in front of her eyes. “I don’t want to watch you crash and burn with these assholes. So please. _Pl_ _ease_. Believe me when I say that you’re better than this. I’m not a kid anymore. I know what I’m saying. I know what I’m doing.”

 

Aranea has been around long enough she can remember when the army had more people than MTs. When the Emperor didn’t sit on his throne and natter about some foreign crystal. A time before the whispers around the labs.

A time before they were sent to harvest daemons. That bad taste in her mouth, that she’s been ignoring for years returns stronger than ever.

Iris cups Aranea’s cheek again. Warmth pours into her. “Iris—”

She’s stopped by chapped lips on hers. A soft, warm kiss that ends as quickly as it starts. Aranea shuts her eyes. How out of control is she? She steps back. “And if I say yes?”

Iris beams. “I’ll send you a letter.” And she has the gall to wink.

 

Aranea gets the dizzying sense she’s in over her head. But she’s looking forward to that letter, like always.


End file.
